


Unreal reality

by laireshi



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 1872
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Temporary Character Death, marvel 1872 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 07:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11504775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi
Summary: Steve always finds Tony, drinking at his porch, and always makes it better--until he can't anymore.Somehow, this is not the end.





	Unreal reality

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Нереальная реальность](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14303934) by [eugenias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eugenias/pseuds/eugenias)
  * Inspired by [Cap IM Tiny RB Round 2: Shellhead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11439375) by [cap_ironman_event_mod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cap_ironman_event_mod/pseuds/cap_ironman_event_mod). 



> Written for the Cap-IM Tiny Bang challenge, inspired by Caz's stunning art! Thanks for doing it, Caz!
> 
> Thanks to [runningondreams](http://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams) for looking at it :) 
> 
> Also a fill for the "free" square at my bingo card.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Steve says, sitting on the porch next to Tony.

Tony takes a long sip from the bottle and keeps silent.

Steve wraps his fingers around Tony’s wrist, and Tony’s got half a mind to push him away—but he doesn’t actually want Steve to go.

And Steve knows it, of course; he always knows when Tony’s ready to accept his touch and he knows when he should keep an arms’ reach away.

He doesn’t know when to leave Tony alone. Tony can’t bring himself to be annoyed at that.

“Your detective skills are commendable, sheriff,” Tony drawls after a while.

Steve huffs a laugh. 

It’s Steve’s porch. Tony might’ve been hoping to see him, but he likes the suggestion Steve actually looked. 

Steve slowly slides his hand down, laces his fingers with Tony’s, and this is how Tony knows whatever Steve wants to say, he’s serious about. 

“You’re getting restless,” Steve says.

Tony reaches for the bottle with his free hand.

“This town needs a blacksmith,” Steve continues.

Tony twists his hand out of his grasp. “I won’t build weapons,” he snarls.

“You could build tools,” Steve says. “Help people. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

“And look where it got me,” Tony says. He drinks, and Steve just watches him, quiet and patient.

“You’re with me,” Steve answers. “You’re not alone.”

There must be a reason they found each other again in a forgotten town at the end of the world, and on a good day Tony realises this reason probably isn’t so that he could drink himself to death in Steve’s arms.

Today is not a good day.

But Steve stays next to Tony almost until sunrise, so maybe it’s not a bad night, either.

***

Tony’s sitting at Steve’s porch, working his way through the second bottle of whiskey. The night is chilly, but he doesn’t really feel it anymore through the burn of the alcohol. 

He still remembers, though, screams and blood and guilt.

He must’ve dozed off, because the next thing he knows is Steve’s arm around his shoulders, pulling him upright. Tony tries to twist out of Steve’s grip instinctively, he can’t really think, everything’s foggy.

(But he remembers. Always.)

He’s only partially aware of Steve lifting him up, carrying him inside.

“One of these days I should let you sober up in a cell,” he says. He’s worried, Tony’s addled mind thinks, or maybe not, maybe he’s just sick of Tony already.

“Don’t do this to me, Tony,” Steve says as he’s laying Tony down in his bed, but Tony probably just heard it wrong . . . He closes his eyes.

When he wakes up again, Steve’s running his fingers through Tony’s hair, and Tony’s sober enough to realise it’s mostly comfort for Steve himself. 

He never meant to hurt Steve, too. But he can’t cope differently.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. Steve stills his hand for a second, and then strokes Tony’s face slowly, and he doesn’t say anything at all, but he’s there.

Sometimes, it’s like Steve can make anything better just by staying with Tony.

***

Tony’s drinking at the porch, alone. He’s not sure how much he’s drunk, but he’s sure it hasn’t been enough.

“Tony,” someone says, and it’s all wrong, Steve doesn’t call him by his first name in public, they just don’t do that—

It’s not Steve’s voice, and it’s not Steve’s silhouette towering over Tony, of course it’s not, because Steve’s _dead_ , and it’s Tony’s fault, _Steve’s dead_ and he’ll never stop Tony drinking on his porch again. 

He’ll never save Tony, either, but that’s just fair: Tony didn’t save him the one time it mattered. 

Tony doesn’t care who it is, but then the person squats next to him, their face coming into focus, and slowly he recognizes Bruce.

He drinks more. He doesn’t have energy to deal with Bruce.

“You shouldn’t—”

“Don’t you dare,” Tony says. “He’s dead; there’s nothing else—”

“Fisk _will_ get you if you continue like this,” Bruce says.

Tony drinks again. “Let him,” he says. 

Bruce keeps talking, but Tony tunes him out.

Steve gone, Steve dead, Steve shot dead with a gun of Tony’s own making. 

Tony _can’t_.

He keeps drinking. There’s nothing else.

***

It’s late December. The nights are getting colder. Tony doesn’t mind. Maybe he’ll freeze to death, if drinking won’t get him there first. 

Steve’s porch feels cold too, colder than it should. Tony can’t make himself move somewhere else. This is still Steve’s place, even without Steve.

If only Tony could be Tony Stark without Steve.

He starts singing, the words to Danny Boy rolling off his tongue slurred, the melody botched—he can’t carry a tune that drunk—but it doesn’t matter. Steve won’t hear anymore.

There’s a sound of running. “Stark!” someone yells. Fisk’s boys, by the sound of it. Tony downs the bottle next to him. 

He could break it on someone’s head, except he doesn’t feel willing to fight. For what, anyway?

He keeps singing. Maybe they’ll find him quicker in the dark. 

“Shut up, drunkard,” one of them spits at him. Tony can see three people and doesn’t know their names. He doesn’t care.

He tries to smile, but he’s pretty sure he’s unable to do it anymore, and keeps on singing. “ _And I am dead as dead as I well may be . . ._ ”

The first man drops to the ground with a quiet moan. There’s something moving, faster than Tony can see, and another one goes down. 

“What in Doom’s name?!” the last one yells, and fires in Tony’s direction. 

Tony doesn’t move, but the bullet ricochets off something with a metallic sound before it reaches him.

There’s a big silhouette in front of Tony, painfully familiar and painfully impossible.

The man throws the shield again, and the last attacker goes down.

The man, who is dead, and the shield, which is lost.

That’s it, then, Tony thinks. He’s passed out. It’s all a dream.

Steve turns to Tony and kneels down next to him. “Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?” he snaps.

“Not as hard as you, sheriff,” Tony says. He wants to wake up. It’s a cruel dream.

Steve’s face falls. “I’m sorry,” he says. He touches Tony’s cheek, and Tony leans in easily.

Steve’s warm. He feels _right_.

Tony never wants to wake up again. The dream is better than the reality.

“I don’t understand it,” Steve says, “but I am back. It’s not a dream.”

Was Tony talking out loud? 

Steve is dead.

So Tony can stand up and kiss him while he has a chance, right.

He tries to do just that, but his body betrays him, he can’t keep steady, and Steve supports him immediately.

“Stark?” he asks. “Tony?”

Tony falls unconscious.

***

It’s January, and Tony’s sitting at the porch, sober as a judge. His head is pounding, but he can deal with that. He can’t deal with not knowing what is real anymore.

Steve sits next to him, embracing Tony in shoulders.

“You’re late, sheriff.”

“I still found you,” Steve answers, and Tony finally leans his head against Steve’s. 

“Yes,” he says softly.

He’s sober and his dreams are full of blood, so this is real. 

Steve, alive and well, next to Tony, the way it should be. Steve, still loving Tony as much as Tony loves him. 

Steve, and Tony, and identical rings on their hands, and they’ve never needed to promise each other eternal love, but Tony needed this: _this is real, I’m back, it’s real_.

He shivers, and Steve immediately brings him closer. Back and real, Tony repeats, _back and real_.

It’ll be a good year after all, 1873.


End file.
